


Repressed Memories

by Danny (DannyC)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Memory Related, Mild Gore, Mission Fic, Original Character Death(s), Pre-HYDRA Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5736655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DannyC/pseuds/Danny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t easy for Bucky to repress things, not since the chair shot white-hot lightning through his brain, fried up the circuits and bits that helped with filtering. Bucky doesn’t understand that, not until they explain it to him; something about burning out certain receptors, destroying pathways, too much access to certain parts of the brain that made his hippocampus [or was it hippocampers?] lie dormant for a while.</p>
<p>Or, a repressed memory of one of the more difficult missions the Winter Soldier faced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repressed Memories

It isn’t easy for Bucky to repress things, not since the chair shot white-hot lightning through his brain, fried up the circuits and bits that helped with filtering. Bucky doesn’t understand that, not until they explain it to him; something about burning out certain receptors, destroying pathways, too much access to certain parts of the brain that made his hippocampus [or was it hippocampers?] lie dormant for a while.

Were Bucky able to repress things more easily, he likely wouldn’t remember as much of his time with Hydra and the KGB before them as he does. He would probably have chosen not to remember causing the death of his friend, Howard Stark, and his wife, would not remember staring down at him blankly as his name was uttered, but not understood; “Well if it isn’t Bucky Barnes..“

Bucky would have chosen to forget punishments or “parties,” the terrible shame and disappointment that came with failing to please his handlers. He would have forgotten that horrible chair, or his holding cell, the times he was put away in that tube and frozen, eyes still open and staring. He would have forgotten everything from before returning to Steve, their childhood, the war, Hydra, all of it, because it’s just so damn painful to remember.  A blank slate was what he craved, like a natural wipe supplied by his body, rather than cold metal and the bite of teeth on a mouth guard.

And yet, as difficult as it was for Bucky to repress things, there were a few memories that were hard pressed to come to him, things he chose to forget rather than was forced to, like most everything else. One such memory was the boy with the orange and the posters.

 

It should have been a simple mission, since his targets were a woman and her child. Her husband, a man who had worked for Hydra in the dark, had decided he no longer wanted to help them, so his services had been terminated by the hands of the Winter Soldier, the one they always sent after deserters. It was fine with him, better than fine, to kill those who were no longer loyal, a leftover belief from his time serving not only in the United States Army, but also Russia’s KGB, both of whom punished deserters just as severely during the times of war in which he fought, even if he didn’t remember it at the time of this particular mission.

The woman he made quick work of, a single shot to the head that dropped her like a rock off of a bridge in the Soldier’s distant memories, those hazy shadows at the back of his mind that pressed forward sometimes, the ones that made him behave “erratically” and deserve punishments and a trip to the chair. As he normally did, the asset had ignored it, glancing around once the woman stopped twitching, her nerves dying off soon enough and leaving him alone in her kitchen. She was making soup for her son, home from school with a fever. Had she not been so nosy, she wouldn’t be spilling blood on her tile floor right then, her son unaware in his bedroom thanks to the silencer on his handgun.

It took mere seconds for Winter to leave her body lying alone in the small kitchen of her apartment and seek out her son’s tiny bedroom, but as he stepped in through the door, the Soldier paused. He glanced around, telling himself it was to memorize his surroundings, seek out threats. Too much, too much.

There was artwork on the walls, pictures of.. of someone, standing with a shield in his arms in a blue uniform that was far too flashy, would only draw attention from the enemy. The shield itself however was painted in the aesthetic of a target, likely to draw attention away from its wielder and to it instead, effectively blocking blows and shots. The Soldier had to appreciate the idea behind it, reminded of his own left arm, the bright red star a sharp contrast against cold silver, drawing eyes and crosshairs there rather than his face [don’t be seen don’t be seen] or the lesser protected areas of his body like his legs, stomach, and chest.

And then his eyes fell upon the boy, no older than seven. He was a little wisp of a thing, small and pale against the linens on his bed, the only color on his face the pink of his cheeks and nose, or the blond hair that fell across his forehead, darkened some and stuck there from sweat. He hadn’t noticed Winter’s presence yet, was too busy looking down at the thing in his hands, a strong, acidic smell filling the asset’s nose as the little boy peeled it open.

_Oranges._ The word came to him unbidden; Winter was not allowed solid foods often, and he was fairly sure he hadn’t had this one before. Yet, it brought a familiar shadow sensation over him, the same that came when he broke one of the Rules, when he remembered things they said weren’t real, when he had to be taken to the chair and fixed again, maintenance preformed on his brain just as it was on his arm.

Before the Soldier can do much to push the hint of memory back and away, the boy looked up from his fruit, sharp blue eyes widening as soon as he took the intruder in. He didn’t have time to beg. It hurt, something about those eyes, how small and sick he was, fever slicking his hair and matting it, even seeing him with that orange in his hands, surrounded by artwork and newly orphaned. Something about it, all of it, everything that was happening, was just too much, hurt too bad, brought on too much darkness at once.

_Laughing, earning ten cents for a bundle of oranges, splitting them between.. between people, faces he doesn’t recognize but god he recognizes them. A boy, blond and blue and pale and small with an orange in his hand, laughing and grinning a toothy grin, sticky fingers made of flesh not metal, sharp burst of flavor on tongues, juices filling mouths and the smell, that fucking smell in his nose **right now** –_

The boy’s body stopped moving faster than his mother’s, his posters and artwork painted red from his position when he’d tried to stand and run. The asset looks the pictures over, past the gore that covers them now, and nods slowly to himself as he thinks of the boy laying at his feet, the one in his head and on the floor, same boy but not… One day, this boy would go to a school, a big important one for artists. One day, this boy would grow up big and strong. One day, this boy would eat oranges with men around a fire and tents, a flashy shield tucked close by.

The Winter Soldier picked up the fallen fruit, held it in his hands for a moment before he finished peeling it. It tasted just as he remembered, if he ignored the sharp tang of iron.


End file.
